


Ergo: Homo

by R_Knight



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (For Americans - not in country it takes place in), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Biphobia, Bisexual Male Character, Broning, Casual Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunk Sex, Exploration, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Is Attention Kink a Thing?, Light BDSM, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Neediness, Praise Kink, Self-Discovery, Semi-Public Sex, Slurs, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 16:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14524389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Knight/pseuds/R_Knight
Summary: In which André no-homos his way through casual sex, bro-snuggles and the discovery of something between his captain and his A, before Braden kindly hits him with a clue bat.Or: self-discovery is a bitch.





	Ergo: Homo

**Author's Note:**

> They say write what you know, and I'm a bisexual who loves attention and can't spell, so this was inevitable really. At least spellcheck took care of one of those things. Inspiration came via [this](http://rrgunns.tumblr.com/post/172866014327) tweet, and [this](http://rrgunns.tumblr.com/post/172933690632/doing-some-research-on-burakovsky-for-reasons-and) interview.
> 
> I don't know much about actual hockey or the real lives of anyone in this fic, these are fake versions of real people. I do believe that Andre is like, objectively _that_ needy though.
> 
> See end notes for more in-depth warnings. Also, sorry about the epigraph.

_Come and kiss me._  
_Never mind my bruises,_  
_[…]_  
_Eat me, drink me, love me;  
_ _Laura, make much of me._

Goblin Market - Christina Rossetti

 

I. A friendly blowjob

“ _Never_?” André asks, “Not even _once_?”

He’s flat on his back, staring up at the off-white ceiling of his and Tom’s hotel room, trying and failing to keep the incredulousness from his voice. It’s just – _never_? He should enter into some sort of mystery writing competition, because boy has he just uncovered the greatest plot twist of the century.

“Nope,” Tom says, popping the P, somewhere above and to the right of André. Not that he cares where Tom is, so long as he doesn’t stop petting André’s hair. It’s soothing him through his latest wave of alcohol-related vertigo and also the very genuine shock that Tom and Mike never hooked up.

“But you guys were like, a thing. Bromance. Why not?” André asks, then has to make annoyed sounds at Tom until he resumes his petting.

“Uh, because we’re both straight?” Tom answers. André makes a buzzer sound and gets his elbows under him so he can see Tom’s face properly – eyebrows furrowed in confusion and his jaw slack with alcohol. He really does have a nice face, and it’s a shame Mike never got up close and personal with that. Not that André wants to. Because André doesn’t kiss other guys. He does scoff at Tom’s answer though.

“Doesn’t matter. A hand on your dick is a hand on your dick regardless of hand-owner. You guys could have been getting off on the regular, but instead you just watched the bachelor and cried?”

“Hey!” Tom says, “That was one time. Also I hook up enough, why would I need to go to Mike for that?”

“Because you just said ‘enough’ like that’s a good thing, when you could have been doing it every day.” André really doesn’t think Tom is grasping how good daily sex can be, or he’d be wholeheartedly agreeing and probably calling Mike for a posthumous bromantic fucking or whatever. Instead he’s giving André a look like _he’s_ the crazy person here.

“I feel like you’re glossing over the fact that we’re straight. Are you telling me–”

“I feel like you’re glossing over my ass,” André says nonsensically, and briefly curses his fourth vodka shot, adding, “I am telling! Glad we’re seeing eye to eye,” before rolling over onto his front and sliding between Tom’s legs. Tom goes stiff for a second, but unfreezes to grab André’s wrists when he starts to tug his sweatpants down.

“What!”

“What?”

“You can’t just _do_ that,” Tom says shrilly.

“Why not? Do you _not_ want me to suck your dick?” André asks. Tom seems to consider that, then finally relaxes, dropping André’s wrists and running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. He gives him one last look of trepidation before tugging his pants down around his thighs.

“This is just a bro thing,” Tom says, “You can’t tell anyone,” and André would respond, but he’s _busy_. Tom is only half-way hard, and André has to get him all the way there while carefully navigating any alcohol-related bouts of nausea, but he’s a pro, this is no problem. It takes ages though, is the thing, and after a little while when André’s jaw is aching but  _he's_ so hard he’s close to just humping the bed, he pulls back with a frown.

“Are you not into this?”

“Well, I'm drunk,” Tom says carefully, “And I said I was straight.” André frowns.

“Yeah, so am I? If you don’t want me to blow you just tell me no, man.” There’s a silence after that, long enough that André thinks he’s going to have to get up and leave or something, but when he looks up Tom is just frowning thoughtfully at him. Finally he huffs, stretches his legs out and gestures at André to carry on.

“It’s cool dude, I’ll just close my eyes,” Tom says. André rolls his eyes and privately thinks that it’s a little rude to be pretending the person sucking your dick isn’t actually the person sucking your dick, but whatever, he's used to it.

 

After Tom has come down André’s throat and melted against his pillows in a puddle of muscle and good facial hair, he squints his eyes open in André’s direction, says, “You, uh, need a hand?” But André just shakes his head happily and gets up to show Tom the wet spot on the front of his shorts.

“Gross,” Tom says half-heartedly, then: “So you’re, ah, really into that, huh?” He’s pushed himself up on his elbows and the look he’s giving André is far more scrutinising than he’s ready for when he’s still a little high off his orgasm and his shorts are slowly sticking to his skin. Also his jaw hurts, because Tom really took longer to come than he’d anticipated. André shrugs. He’s not sure he could explain properly in English how he likes helping out his friends, how good it feels touch someone and see how their body responds. How he’s always liked to see a flush on someone’s cheeks, a tremor in their voice, and know that that’s his doing.

“Do you wanna play COD?” he asks instead, and Tom nods and they both clean up and everything is fine.

It happens a couple more times, usually while on the road, and then Tom gets a girlfriend and comes to André all shifty and hang-dog, as if scared André would be upset that he doesn’t want to do their thing any more. Before Tom can start saying something stupid like _it’s not you,_ André cuts him off with as toothy a grin as he can manage and a thump to his shoulder.

“You got a girl, so you don’t need me anymore. It’s cool,” he says. Tom looks relieved for all of ten seconds before he’s retaliating against André’s punch, and then they end up wrestling for a bit, and that’s nice too.

Even after Tom breaks up with his girlfriend they don’t start up anything, because Tom admits to him that he doesn’t think it’s fair that he’s imagining André is a girl the whole time, and André hums and nods and things are fine between them, but he still wonders about it sometimes, why he’s so secure in his sexuality but so many guys aren’t. It’s just _sex_ , it doesn’t mean anything.

Maybe it’s a North American thing.

 

II. Horny for Hugs

André just likes physical touch, is the thing. Not just sex, though that’s good too, but the pressure of a full body hug from a teammate, the feel of being crushed against the glass during a celly, and outside of hockey – leaning into his friend’s sides while they watch a film, the feel of an arm around his shoulders or hands through his hair, it’s all good. He’s sensitive to it, maybe, hyper-aware of every brush against his skin, and for a while he figures it’s normal. Hockey players aren’t shy about touch, after all.

It’s not until he’s explaining this to one of his Malmö teammates and they side-eye him and say, “That’s kind of gay André,” that he realises maybe he shouldn’t be admitting to those feelings. It _isn’t_ gay though, because he likes touch from everybody, not just boys, and most of the time it has nothing to do with sex at all. So what if he got a boner during cellys sometimes, he’s a teenager.

He keeps his thoughts and his warm-feelings to himself, but he doesn’t stop initiating hugs and seeking out touches from his friends when he can. So _what_ if both his teammates and his mother still call him _lille gubben_ even when he’s sixteen and playing as an adult, it’s not like they mean it badly.

Over time he learns that some people are more receptive to touch than others. Nick is totally cool about André draping himself all over him, but then they’ve been best friends so long it’s hard to tell what’s normal and what’s just them. He learns that some guys will slap each-other’s asses and bear hug on the ice but stay a healthy distance at all times off of it, whereas others will play the game serious and aloof, then mess around naked in the changing rooms, curl easy arms around waists and lay tired heads on shoulders. Those are the guys that are more than willing to fool around.

Mostly its him and Nick exchanging terrible handjobs while bemoaning the lack of girls in their life, but André also ends up with a few other teammates and friends of friends while at Malmö, learning pretty quickly the guys that are receptive and only has to deal with one awkward rejection before he realises the types that are up for it. Even then it’s a work-in-progress to figure out what exactly is considered ‘okay’ between two guys. André knows kissing is a no go, because that’s like, romantic or whatever. But beyond that, the unspoken rules that govern bro-sex are confusing and surprisingly extensive.

A lot of guys are totally into getting their dick sucked until it’s their turn to reciprocate, and then they clam up. Others only want to exchange handjobs while sat parallel on the foot of a bed and avoiding eye contact, and he finds out pretty quickly that cuddling is _not_ okay, even if it’s the exact same thing he’d do any other time. It’s confusing, and André spends a lot of time complaining to Nick that he’s the only guy that, like, _gets it._ Nick usually changes the subject by starting a wrestling match or shoving his hand down André’s pants or both. One time when they’re lying top to tail on his single bed and André is trying to put into words why it annoys him so much, Nick makes a frustrated growling sound punches André in the leg.

“What the fuck?”

“Stop _talking_ about it André. Other guys don’t want to touch or suck dick because they think it’s gay, and I know you’re – like, horny for hugs or whatever and can’t get enough, but you have me, so I don’t see why you’re still complaining!” Nick is close to yelling by the end of that, panting and a little wild around the eyes when André sits up to shove a hand over his mouth.

He means to tell him to shut up in case someone hears, or ask where this even came from, but instead he says, “Did you just say I’m _horny for hugs_?” And he can see the moment Nick realises how dumb that sounds, because he falls back against his pillow with a thump, cackling.

“Well, it’s _true_ ,” Nick points out, and André can’t really argue there, so he doesn’t, just giggles along with him.

So, whatever, André is having a good time and if some guys are squeamish about giving blowjobs, well, a hand is just fine, and anyway it’s not like it’s a _hardship_ to suck dick for his buddies.

 

Around the time when he moves to North America, girls start to take interest in him. André spends a while discovering the joys of penetrative sex and being allowed to snuggle with the person afterwards, which is fun. Oral, he finds, is still his favourite thing to do, even with different parts involved. He has transferable skills that mostly involve unabashed enthusiasm, and the sounds that girls make when they’re getting eaten out, as if they’re shocked by their own reactions, make him feel _amazing_. Boys are usually quiet by nature or necessity, so it’s harder to learn what’s good for them and when André’s doing well.

He also likes the feel of strong thighs clenched around his face, a tight grip in his hair – and once the novelty of sex with girls settles, it’s the closest he gets to fulfilling the craving he gets sometimes, to be surrounded, maybe, or held down or something. He’s not sure, but his new teammates are far less interested in friendly blowjobs, and the girls probably don’t want to hear that he feels like he’s missing something, so he just encourages them to hold his hair tighter, to get on top of him for oral, and that’s good enough.

 

III. The Nicke Incident

André has less time to ponder what exactly he’s missing about sex when he's in the NHL, because he’s moving in with _Nicklas Bäckström,_ he’s joining the Capitals, and his entire life revolves around hockey. He wonders a few times if any of his new teammates have agreements like he and Nick used to, wonders if that’s a thing or if Americans don’t do that. If NHL players don’t do that.

Mostly though, it’s all training, trying to get his English up to scratch, and letting Nicke tuck him under his metaphorical wing. He isn’t certain if it’s a baby-swede thing or if he just inspires parental feelings in people, but he isn’t going to complain about Nicke teaching him to cook and helping him with his English.

Still, even though he had decided that he was going to focus on hockey and not bother picking up anyone for a while, the high from his first NHL goal only carries him so far, and soon he’s feeling antsy.

It’s not even a lack of sex, not really. It’s just – it feels like no one’s touched him in _months_ , which isn’t true at all, because he’s for sure been piled upon in on-ice cellys, and Ovechkin personally finds every opportunity he can to mess up André’s hair. But it’s not _enough_ , not even close, and maybe that’s weird of him, but he’s getting to a point where finding meaningless sex is looking like a good idea if only to get to touch someone for a little while.

So that’s about the time that Nicke starts being weirdly affectionate with him, which is extra weird, because Nicke isn’t physically affectionate with _anyone_ , bar Ovi. Emotionally, he’s supportive and thoughtful and everything André could want in a second dad, but he’s not that touchy. Maybe André wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t so tuned in to physical affection, but gradually Nicke starts patting him on the shoulder or gripping the back of his neck during practice, sitting close to him when they watch TV and letting his hugs linger.

Blame it on his touch-starvation, on hug-deprived stupidity, but André maybe misinterprets the situation. Nicke is just so _nice_ , always happy to help with things and only ever gently teasing, even when André does stuff like getting stuck in his jersey, or manages to get a speeding ticket in Nicke’s car. So Nicke is _touching him_ and _smiling at him_ and André does the only logical thing, and he gets on his knees.

 

They’d been watching a Swedish series he couldn’t remember the name of, sat tucked together on the sofa with Nicke’s arm around his shoulders and André curled into Nicke’s side as much as he could with the height difference, when Nicke had laughed at something on the TV and looked down at him and, well. Blame Nicke’s stupid smile.

He doesn’t really register what he’s doing until it’s too late for him to pretend it’s anything other than what it is: André, between Nicke’s legs, desperate for his dick. And for the first time since – since Malmö, probably, he’s gotten things way, way off, because Nicke goes _white_.

“What are you _doing_?” he says, not angry but still stern enough that André winces.

“I just, thought,” he mumbles, his accent thickening, stuck in his throat, “I thought, with the – the touching, and, you were–” It’s awful, and humiliating, and he should get up off the floor but he’s still frozen in place by Nicke’s wide eyes and the dawning realisation that he’s really fucked up. “If you want me to, uh, leave,” he starts, but Nicke finally moves, stopping him with a careful hand on his shoulder.

“First of all, I’m not kicking you out,” Nicke says, then sighs heavily. “I’m sorry for leading you on, or confusing you, it’s just, I talked to your mother, and she said some things, and I thought that this was something that would help you getting settled here, but I – I’m sorry André, I didn’t mean to – I don’t feel that way about you.”

André blinks at him, shocked into silence. He knew, in an abstract sense, that Nicke had talked to his mom a few times. But the idea of her explaining _this_ to Nicke, giving him advice like André is a – a _child_ , or a needy dog that requires gentle handling, is maybe the most mortifying thing he can imagine. He fights the urge to walk out, to fly back to Sweden, to shove his stupid hot face into an icy lake. He needs to set one thing straight with Nicke first.

“I don’t feel that way either,” André says, but Nicke still looks dubious, so he adds, “No, I don’t know what my mom said but I’m not gay. I just thought, you were being so nice, and you might – just as friends, you know?” He’s probably still not making much sense, and he’s desperately thankful that this conversation can be in Swedish, because his English is terrible when he’s stressed. Nicke takes a moment to digest what André has said before he speaks, delicate with his words.

“You know you don’t have to do that to live here, André. I don’t know if you thought that’s how things worked, but you shouldn’t ever have to use your body in exchange for somewhere to live,” Nicke says, all worried eyes and soft voice and André can’t stand it.

“That’s not what I mean at _all,_ ” he protests, frustrated with how this conversation is still completely off the rails. He’s feeling twitchy still on his knees, so he shakes Nicke’s hand off his shoulder and stands up, breathing heavily through his nose. “I didn’t think that. I don’t know why you think _I’d_ think that. I just thought that maybe you wanted to like, exchange handjobs for fun or something. Like, bros you know?” He sort of croaks out the last part, well aware of how dumb he sounds. But the look of understanding on Nicke’s face is such a relief that he can’t even regret his stupid wording.

“Oh, thank – good, that’s good. Even if it wasn’t wildly inappropriate, I don’t do casual stuff André, and I’m still sorry for confusing you, but I’m glad you didn’t think that you needed to do that,” Nicke says, and André collapses back onto the seat next to him, laughing a little hysterically.

“It’s fine. I can’t believe my mom–” André says, then remembers something. “Did she, uh. Tell you her name for me?”

“No,” Nicke says immediately, then when André puffs out a relieved breath: “I won’t tell anyone about it, _lille gubben_.”

“Ugh,” André says, but Nicke is laughing finally, eyes crinkling, and André can’t find it in himself to protest when things are just starting to feel less tense. Nicke goes quiet and thoughtful after a moment though, then he puts his hand on André’s knee, not hesitant but definitely careful about it.

“So that wasn’t you coming out?” Nicke asks, “Because you know I’d be fine with it.”

“No, papa, sorry. I know you have a speech prepared,” André says. Nicke sort of grimaces and laughs at the same time, shaking his head at him.

“Please don’t call me that right after offering to suck my dick.”

Still feeling like he wants to be touched and suddenly having an idea about how to get it, André casts a side-ways glance in his direction and asks, “Would you prefer daddy?”

 

The bruise on his ass from being pushed off the sofa is a small price to pay for the warm feeling he gets when Nicke wrestles him to the ground in retaliation.

 

IV. Cuddlebug

Right before André moves to Washington, he has a formative experience with a girl a year older than him that he meets at a friend of a friend’s party. He’s a little tipsy, and a lot fascinated by a tall dark haired girl with muscled arms bigger than his own and thighs that strain at the seams of her skinny jeans. She catches his eye early on in the night, but he loses track of her and spends a few hours drinking and playing beer pong before he spots her again, dancing with her friends. This time when she spots him she makes her way over, introducing herself as Maya, a college rugby player, and also _would he like to maybe get out of here?_

He does, and they do, and _out of here_ turns out to be an empty bedroom upstairs where she pushes him against the door and kisses him with a ferocity bordering on painful. She bites at his mouth and tugs him towards the bed, and without really noticing at first – into her lap. Not so that he's looming over her while she lays down like he’s done with other girls, but upright, straddling her thighs and settled with her arms around him, one hand between his shoulders while the other comes up to grip his chin, spread over his throat. Maya encourages him to get his arms around her neck while she kisses him again, getting her tongue in his mouth, and it hits him suddenly, why he’s so into this.

With her arms around him, with her taking control of their kisses and moving him where she wants him, Maya makes him feel _small_ , surrounded, and he flushes white-hot with the realisation. It makes him feel hazy and weak with how turned on he is, something that hasn’t happened to him since Sweden. He thinks he might say that out loud or make some sort of sound, because Maya pulls back slowly, nipping at his jaw and pressing a kiss to his cheekbone and smiling at him, a little bit mean.

“You like that, huh?” she says, stroking a hand through his hair and tugging a little, the other still splayed across his back. “Not a lot of boys like that I’m bigger than them.”

It takes more effort than it should to get his words out, and when he does they’re embarrassingly breathless. “They are idiots,” André mumbles against her throat, and her pleased laugh echoes around him, making his toes curl. She laughs at him a lot, and only sometimes is it mean – though he finds he likes it both ways. Maya laughs when he trips over his pants in his eagerness to get them off, she laughs in delight when he lets himself be manhandled onto his back, arching into her touches with an eagerness that he should probably be embarrassed about. Maya laughs at the state of his hair when he finally shuffles back from between her thighs, and she laughs at him when they’re both half-asleep and he’s trying to explain why he likes sucking his friend’s dicks even though he doesn’t like, _like_ sucking dick.

He kind of loves her for it.

-

Over the summer they end up hooking up pretty often, and every single time they do it’s amazing. But in the end he knows that he’s leaving for Washington, and then she tells him after sex one time that she doesn’t date boys anyway. She’s plastered against his back with her arms wrapped around him, her boobs pressed up against his bare skin, rubbing cream into the red marks her scarves had left on his wrists, and he can’t even find it in himself to be too upset; still high off the endorphins.

“What’s this then?” he asks, genuinely curious, if a little too out of it to properly have this conversation.

“This is fun, Cuddlebug,” Maya says, mouth brushing the skin behind his ear. “Like with your boys.” Which makes a weird sort of sense to him, and as he drifts off he thinks that he wouldn’t mind this with some of his friends, if only they were up for it.

They part ways happily, but the experience sticks with him, and even though he has sex with a few girls once he’s in Washington, it’s nothing like the high he’d get with Maya. After a while he decides to just focus on hockey: it will have to be enough.

 

V. An Agatha Christie Nicke Mystery

Even after André moves in with Willy and Latts, and later his own place, he still likes to think that he knows Nicke better than a lot of the other younger guys on the team. Nicke isn’t shy, but he’s guarded with his feelings and he doesn’t have that need to share his every thought like a lot of them do. Living with Nicke gave André enough insight into his personality that he’s not surprised when he’s the only one to notice him acting strange.

Not strange like touching-André-more strange, the long since patched over disaster that had really been a good thing in the end, since other teammates had followed Nicke’s suit in touching him, and now André is spoiled for choice in who he wants to cuddle up with on road-trips, who gets his head in their lap when he’s tired, or wrestles him to the ground when he needs it. It’s great. But Nicke is still being weird, shifty about changing in the locker room and refusing invitations to hang out, and it takes probably too long for André to notice that the days that he refuses, Ovi does the same. But no one else seems to have picked up on it, which is fair – Alex has a way of turning you down that makes it feel like he’s still coming anyway. It’s a talent.

What André doesn’t understand is what it is they’re doing together when blowing off team bonding. He decides to investigate, right after finds Vrana to see if he’s up for hanging out on their off day.

Of the various Caps rookies, Vrana is the only one that André has luck with over the years – Tom only fooled around until he got a girlfriend, he never had the chance to ask Mike, and none of the others gave off any sort of vibe that they’d be into it. André’s not an idiot, he knows that this isn’t juniors, and if word got out and things were misinterpreted, well – it’s best not to think about it.

He doesn’t get itchy and desperate for sex the way he does physical affection, but one year during a long dry spell he tries to offer Oshie a helping hand, forgetting that he has a wife that would probably object to that. Thankfully TJ is all kinds of nice about it, doesn’t even laugh at him.

“Maybe if you asked before me and Lauren were together,” TJ tells him thoughtfully, “Though I’m not sure that we’d have been, uh, compatible, you know? Too similar tastes.” André doesn’t know, but he’s gotten good at nodding and pretending to understand English words and phrases that make no sense, so he smiles at TJ and agrees and headbutts him in the shoulder to show that they’re cool.

Which means that it’s not till Vrana is drafted that he gets another guy’s hand on his dick since Tom, and before that, back with the Hershey Bears. None of the other rookies seem the type, even Djoos, who André sort of hoped might be, but had gotten all awkward when André had brought up the general concept of mutual handjobs to test the waters. Consider them tested, then, and filled with André’s disappointment.

Vrana’s cool, since he lets André get between his knees and really go to town on him, spending his time finding out how the flick of his tongue raises goosebumps on Vrana’s arms, how his toes curl when André pays attention to his balls. It’s cool, but Vrana isn’t really into doing the same for him, and even though they hang out after sometimes, it’s usually just playing videogames at opposite ends of the couch.

It’s fine though. It’s enough.

-

Meanwhile, the thing with Nicke comes to a head when André turns up at his place one night – technically uninvited, but since he still has a key he figures Nicke won’t mind, and the moment he pushes the door open he realises it's a mistake. Nicke appears like some kind of phantom, wide eyed and much, much more naked than André is accustomed to. Which is to say, he’s got briefs that are clearly hastily pulled on, since they’re inside out, and one sock. Saying his hair looks like a bird's nest would be too kind.

“André,” Nicke starts, attempting something like stern, then seems to fizzle out. He’s still blocking André from entering. “What are you doing here?” he asks finally. Before André can answer though, there’s a voice from the direction of Nicke’s bedroom.

“Backy! You need help with delivery?”

André feels his eyes widening to match Nicke’s own, because even if he didn’t recognise that voice, there’s only one person that actually calls Nicke that. “Is that?” André asks, suddenly reevaluating Nicke’s behaviour over the last month, reevaluating the fluorescent pink waistband of the underwear Nicke’s wearing. They are clearly not his own.

“No.”

“ _Nicke_ ,” André says, “ _Papa_. Really?” Nicke doesn’t sigh, doesn’t scrub his hands through his hair or shift restlessly, but his shoulders do slump a little.

“Okay,” Nicke says finally, “But you can’t tell anyone, André.”

“I _wouldn’t,_ ” André says, though he knows keeping this quiet is going to kill him, “I’m happy for you though, what a good arrangement!”

“Arrangement?” Alex asks, wandering out of the bedroom in a bathrobe too short for André’s sanity, bemused smile playing across his face. André feels his face heat up inexplicably.

“Yeah, uh – like, buddies you know?”

“Like _buddies?_ ” Alex repeats, looking confused for a moment before understanding suddenly dawns across his face, and his eyebrows raise to his hairline. He opens his mouth to say something, but André never learns what he means to say because Nicke elbows Alex, _hard_.

“Exactly, buddies. And now you know André, so do you mind,” Nicke says, and André nods quickly, understanding.

“Yeah, I’ll just go, sorry to interrupt and, ah, bye,” he replies, turning around and heading back the way he came.

As he closes the door behind him he hears Alex, sounding mystified, ask “ _Buddies_?” and Nicke’s fond laugh his only response. 

 

VI. A Less friendly blowjob

So Nicke and Alex are having sex. André tries not to think too hard about the details of that, namely because they’re his dads, and: ew. André realises his mistake in trying to start a thing with Nicke now, even aside from the fact that at this point the idea is weird just from so long knowing him, and that despite an extremely platonic appreciation of Nicke’s deceptively strong body, there’s no _real_ attraction there. Not enough for a friends with benefits thing anyway, and in any case, clearly André is at the very opposite end of whatever spectrum he and Ovi exist on as a potential fuck-friend or whatever. André doesn’t know what Nicke might have been looking for, but if he’s started up a thing with Ovi, then clearly André wasn’t it.

So André is completely and wholeheartedly happy for them, except for the tiny fact that he’s _insanely_ jealous. He can’t even figure out why, it’s not like he’s ever been jealous of any of his other friends with fuckbuddy arrangements, and it’s not like he wants to do anything with either of them. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s in the midst of an embarrassingly long dry spell. He’s just not been that interested in picking up, and the idea of having a convenient friend to let out steam with is more and more appealing. Vrana is cool, but he’s not as into the whole thing as André is for whatever reason, so André doesn’t think he’d be super into the idea of exclusive buddies or whatever it is Nicke and Ovi are doing.

André is a little ways past tipsy and trying to tell all this to Holtby in a bar that he’s forgotten the name of, but he can’t really explain his feelings very well when he doesn’t understand them himself, and it must be coming across, because Braden is just staring at him intently over his own beer.

“What?” André asks, unnerved by the scrutiny.

“Well,” Braden says, shifting in his seat and turning his head to look around the bar, “You do realise there’s at least a dozen guys that would happily have sex with you if you asked.”

“On the team?”

“No, André,” Braden says slowly, then gestures at the bar around them, waiting for André to get it. André follows his gaze, takes in the people that are around them; not just his teammates that are scattered in various booths and across the dancefloor, but the girls that are dancing together and eyeing up where the rookies are making fools of themselves trying to order at the bar, the older people scattered around the edges of the room, the guys a few booths over watching him and Braden intently. _Oh_.

“I’m not–” André starts, but Braden doesn’t even let him start, making a show of rolling his eyes.

“You’re not gay, okay, but you do have sex with men, so why is this any different than helping out a teammate?”

“It just is!” André hisses, “If I do anything with one of those guys, they’ll think I’m gay, and what if they told the media or something, then what?”

“I don’t think they will, and they probably don’t even know who you are,” Braden says. He casts a glance back over at them for a second, then turns back to André, looking serious. “Listen, I’m not telling you to do anything André. Obviously there are risks, and I don’t want you to be stupid, but if the only reason you aren’t doing something is because you worry the other person will think you’re gay, then that’s kind of stupid. What does it even matter if you never see them again?”

André takes a moment to digest that. He’s had just enough alcohol that he’s starting to forget the reasons why this might be a bad idea, but if Holtby is suggesting it then it has to at least make some sense – even if he’s pretty deep into the beer himself. So he could just. Help a guy out. Even if he doesn’t know them, it’s basically the same thing as jerking off a friend, right? Just letting off some steam with a stranger, and with no feelings involved it’s not gay, basically just a business transaction, right?

“Right,” André says, then flicks his eyes back to the guys, gives the bigger one who’s still watching them a nod, then tilts his head in the direction of the toilets. When he looks back at Braden his eyes are wide, surprised.

“I didn’t necessarily mean with _that_ guy,” he says, but André shrugs, standing up when he sees him head off towards the toilets. “Uh, maybe you shouldn’t—” Braden starts, but André is already too far away to hear what he says.

 

Okay. So he’s doing this. Maybe he’s gone mad with sex-deprivation, but the alcohol and Braden’s logic have given him enough of a confidence boost that this feels like a good idea. He’ll see if the guy wants a handjob, he’ll get whatever’s offered in return, and he’ll go to sleep tonight content that he made the right decision here. He knocks on the door to the bathroom, conveniently one of the single cubicle kinds, and lets himself be tugged inside.

 

“Hey,” the guy says without preamble, pulling André into a kiss before he can even formulate a response. It takes him off guard, since he didn’t think this would involve kissing, and he’s never done it with a guy before besides that one time with Nick, but he turns out to be an amazing kisser: sharp with his teeth, a little forceful, but soft where it counts. André is swiftly distracted – he’s pressed up against the wall by the guy, much taller up close and bulky enough that even with his preseason muscle André feels small underneath him.

André goes a little weak at the knees as the guy sucks on his neck, hand gripping at the roots of his hair just shy of too painful – but his wobbly legs turn out not to be an issue because the guy pulls back and asks, “Blowjob?” Dazed from the kiss and how shivery good he feels, André just nods and lets the guy turn them around and manhandle him onto his knees, even if he doesn’t realise until he’s on the floor that the guy was asking for a blowjob, not offering. But that’s fine, André’s got skill-sets that he’s willing to put to good use.

He undoes his jeans before André can, and it’s not long before André’s got his dick in his mouth, heavy and full and so _so_ good. He grinds his palm against his own dick, almost fully hard already, and lets himself fall into the rhythm of it. The hands in his hair feel amazing, and the guy’s voice is gravelly and low as he speaks above him, saying things about how good André is and how well he’s doing. André moans in reply, tries to convey how much he likes those words by going deeper on the guy’s dick, showing off a little.

So he’s just feeling like maybe he could get off like this when the compliments shift abruptly into how _he’s_ _made for this, such a slut, can’t get enough, he would let anyone do this to him, wouldn’t he?_ It makes André freeze, a slimy cold wash of uneasiness and shame settling in his chest and making his stomach churn. Before he can pull away hands are sliding through his hair and round to the back of his head, holding him in place with one huge hand and fucking into his mouth. André chokes, his eyes stinging and drool sliding down his chin, but all he can focus on are the words the guy is saying, endless and awful.

“I know you love it you little fag, you were willing to leave your boyfriend out there because you’re so desperate to suck my dick, bet you do this all the time – ah, c’mon, hold still slut, let me just—” But André doesn’t let him finish, because he may be smaller than the guy but he’s still a hockey player, and he’s been taught by Mike and Tom and others how to fight back. He gets one knee up under himself and is about to punch the guy in his balls, but he goes quiet, dropping the hand clenched around the back of André’s head and allowing him to pull back, coughing and sucking in air.

“You good?” He asks André, and he doesn’t grab him again, but he also doesn’t sound all that concerned. He wants to tell the guy that he’s not a – he’s not gay, that he thought that this would be different, that the guy is a dick for saying the shit that he did and that he shouldn’t be doing this sort of thing until he learns better blowjob etiquette. But instead of any of that, he stays half knelt on the floor, heaving in wet breaths and trying to get himself into some sort of state that resembles calm. Going from content and hazily horny to upset and panicked has given him some uncomfortable emotional whiplash, and the alcohol still in his system is making it hard for him to think properly.

The guy asks him what’s wrong, if he wants to carry on, why he’s being a tease, but André ignores him while he gets his feet under him, ignores him while he casts a glance at the mirror to look at his reflection – his hair is an untameable mess and his eyes are wet, his mouth swollen and the mark on his neck a lurid red – then he ignores him while he pushes past and out into the bar. 

 

VII. Adult Conversations / The OED is your friend

His hope that none of his teammates catch him leaving the bar is immediately lost when he sees Braden still sat in the same booth, obviously watching and waiting for André to come out. His face goes from curious to concerned to horrified in such a short time when he catches André’s face that André knows he must look awful. He quickly turns away, heading towards the exit as fast as he can without running, but is stopped at the door by Braden’s hand on his shoulder. He fights a flinch.

“What the _hell_ , André?” Braden shouts over the music, looking so concerned and worried and careful and André can’t _do_ this, he feels terrible and he just wants to go to bed or like, throw up in the street or something. He can’t deal with any other teammates noticing and coming over, can’t deal with anything, so he shrugs off Braden’s hand and crosses his arms protectively over his chest.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I just, I want to go home,” André mumbles. Braden doesn’t even take a second to scrutinize that, which is how André knows he must be really worried – instead he nods very seriously, half turning back to the bar.

“I’m not letting you go back to your place alone right now. You don’t have to say anything, but please crash on my couch tonight or something André, for my conscience if nothing else,” Braden says. André has no argument against that, not that he really wants to argue. Even if he doesn’t want to talk, knowing that there are other people around always makes him feel better when he’s sad.

“Fine.”

“Good, okay,” Braden says quickly, “Why don’t you wait outside while I grab my coat. I’ll call an Uber, okay?”

-

André barely has to wait five minutes before Braden is joining him outside, then another minute for the Uber, but he’s still shivering by the time he’s sliding into the car, fighting to keep his teeth from chattering. Braden throws his coat over André like a blanket, which helps, but then he tries to _talk_ , which absolutely doesn’t.

“Do I need to tell the guys to find him, or call the—” Braden starts, then looks over at their driver and seems to backtrack. “I’m sorry,” is all he says instead. André is just feeling calm enough to roll his eyes at that.

“Not your fault.”

“But—”

“Can we wait till morning for this conversation?” André whines, not ready for anything like a serious talk. Thankfully Braden acquiesces, and they don’t even say anything to each other again until Braden is showing André where the spare sheets are in his guest room and Brandi appears in the doorway, bleary with sleep but smiling softly.

“What are you doing here, André?” she asks, sliding her arm around Braden’s waist. André flails a little, not wanting to explain, but in the end he doesn’t have to, because when Brandi notices him properly, fully takes in what André looks like – an absolute state if it’s anything like what he glimpsed back in the bathroom mirror at the bar, and her jaw drops a little, eyebrows furrowing in concern. The two of them are so similar sometimes, it’s uncanny.

“What happened? Are you okay?” she asks, but thankfully Braden shakes his head at her, patting André one last time on the shoulder and steering her towards the door.

“Not tonight babe, we’re gonna talk in the morning,” Braden tells her, and she must understand whatever wordless married-person communication Braden is doing with his face because she doesn’t fight him on it. “We’re just down the hall if you need anything André,” he adds.

“Sleep well sweetheart, sleep in as long as you like,” Brandi says softly, tugging the door closed behind them.

Which leaves André on his own. He makes the bed with fresh linens, cleans his teeth for longer than is strictly necessary, then gets himself under the covers, all while keeping his mind carefully blank. He worries for a second that he’s going to be up all night thinking about what had happened, but he’s both emotionally and physically tired, and within minutes he’s asleep.

 

André wakes up to the sounds of cooking in the kitchen and the smell of something that could be bacon wafting up the stairs. He takes a second to savor the smell, the feel of waking up in a warm bed and the sun seeping in through a crack in the curtains, then heaves a sigh and pushes himself upright. He’s not as hungover as he thought he’d be with how much he drank last night, but he still feels sort of like a truck hit him, or like he’d had bag skating for a day straight. He’s achy and tense, and he knows that the next massage he gets is going to be hell with all the knots he’s working himself into, but he really can’t help it.

Last night had been _terrible_. He knows, objectively, that the things that guy had said to him weren’t any worse than what he might hear on the ice from a particularly mean player or pissed off fan, so it shouldn’t have got him as worked up as it did. But it _did_ , and he still can’t figure out why. He sorts though the things the guy had said to him – about being on his knees, being a slut for it, desperate – and it doesn’t get him upset so much as angry, now. So what if he was? André isn’t gay, but he knows that a lot of guys who _are_ find time for each other in bars and bathrooms, and a lot of them must like sucking dick, because André sort of loves it, and he doesn’t even like guys like that.

André feels a little sick imagining him saying it to those guys, guys who probably get enough shit, and don’t deserve that from someone who’s dick they’re sucking even if it is supposed to be like, sexy or whatever. Who _says_ that stuff, and to someone you don’t even know? And that’s without even touching the physical aspect. André still really wants to avoid thinking about that, and about what could have happened if the guy hadn’t let go, if the person he was with wasn’t able to fight back. André is pulled from his thoughts when there’s a knock at the door, and Braden pokes his head in.

“Hey Burky, you awake?” André grunts an affirmative. “Breakfast is done if you wanted to come down? The kids are already at school, so it’s just me and Brandi."

“Sure, sure,” André says, pushing away the sheets and sliding out of the bed. “Let me get dressed and I’ll be down.”

Braden nods but lingers for a moment, like he isn’t a hundred percent sure André isn’t going to climb out the window or something, which is fair. André knows that he’s going to have to talk about what happened over breakfast, and they both know it’s not going to be fun. After awkwardly staring for a bit, Braden gets that André isn’t going to move while he’s still standing there and closes the door, leaving him to get dressed in peace. He putters around for a bit, getting dressed slowly and actually making the bed, until he feels brave enough to go downstairs, but not so long that they think he’s hiding.

He _is_ hiding, but he doesn’t want them to think that.

He slinks his way into the kitchen in bare feet and jeans, and he feels just a little bit better when he sees that they’re both still in their pyjamas, Brandi’s hair tied up in a messy topknot and Braden in reading glasses that André’s not sure he’s seen before. They’re both still ridiculously attractive, but André feels less of a slob in his clothes from the night before.

“Hey,” he says, when they notice him, voice rough with more than just sleep. They don’t comment on it though, Brandi abandoning her post over the cooker and handing off a spatula to Braden so that she can come over to hug André, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek.

“C’mon, I thought we’d have a cheat day today, bacon and eggs and french toast, the works,” she says, dragging him over to the stools they have set by the kitchen island.

André gets himself comfortably perched on one of them, sipping a coffee that Braden hands over silently, then bites the bullet before they do.

“So uh, thank you for letting me stay over last night,” he says, brushing off their protests that it’s nothing, the least they can do, he’s welcome whenever. “It was good you took me home. Better with people.” He tries not to wince when he starts to trip over his words, nervousness making it harder to translate. Brandi smiles though, sliding eggs onto a plate and putting it in front of him with the rest of the food.

“No problem,” she says. “Now dig in, because we have some stuff to talk about and I want you fed before that happens.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. They spend ten minutes in relative silence, eating companionably, until Braden slides his empty plate away, stretching and sitting back on his chair.

“Okay, you really don’t need to tell me anything if it makes you uncomfortable, but I think it might be good to talk about a few things, not just what happened last night.”

“Okay,” André says, chewing the last of his toast, “What do you want to know?”

Braden shares a meaningful look with Brandi, then shrugs. “Maybe start with last night, to begin with. Did you… was everything okay? With what happened with that guy?” He asks. André tries not to tense up too much at the memory, but they must notice because Brandi cuts in.

“I can go if you want, André. We just want to know you’re okay.”

“No,” André says, shaking his head, “It’s fine, I just don’t know what to say. We, um, I kissed him, and we were doing… stuff, and then he just started saying shit, like mean stuff you get in porn you know? Like he thought people actually like to be called whores in real life,”He rolls his eyes, still closer to angry than upset now, which makes this easier to talk about.

“Did you tell him that?” Brandi asks.

André feels himself start to flush involuntarily. “I was sort of busy at first,” he says, voice going quiet, “But then he called me a, uh, a fag, and more stuff, and he was being kind of rough, so that's when I left.” He swallows hard, throat clicking, and keeps his eyes trained on his empty plate in front of him. He thinks that he should probably offer to clean the dishes.

“ _Burky_ ,” Braden says suddenly, sounding like André just told him someone kicked his dog. Like someone kicked his dog, which happened to be André. “Shit, this was my fault, I shouldn’t have pushed you—”

“You didn’t make me go with him,” André says, looking up from his plate. “I didn’t see you forcing his dick in my mouth.” Then he realises what he just said and freezes. _God._ “Uh. Sorry.”

“Don’t,” Braden says, “Don’t apologise. What that guy did wasn’t – that wasn’t okay André, and I’m still sorry that I even said anything. We shouldn’t have had that conversation drunk.”

That makes André pause. “What conversation?” He asks, confused. Sure, Braden had suggested he find guys outside of hockey players to fuck around with, but he’s not sure that’s quite what Braden is talking about right now. Not with the serious looks he keeps exchanging with Brandi. His suspicions are confirmed when Braden jerks his fingers through his hair, a nervous tick that André only usually sees before the third period of a particularly brutal game. It’s Brandi that speaks first though, resting her hand carefully on his shoulder.

“André, I want to ask you something if that’s okay? Why… why do you think what that guy said upset you so much? That you wanted to leave?”

It’s not at all what André expected her to say, and for a second he’s stumped. Why _had_ it upset him so much? They weren’t nice things to say, but it’s not like – like they were true. André looks between them both, uncertain of what they want him to say. “I don’t know?” he says slowly, feeling like his thoughts are swirling around in a bathtub, veering ever closer to the drain. He’s not sure what he’ll find when they get there.

“It wasn’t _bad_ ,” André settles on finally, trying to make them understand, “What I was doing. He acted like what I was doing was disgusting, or – or embarrassing, like it was worse to do what I was doing. Maybe it was just something for him to get off, but it was like he thought he wasn’t gay, or whatever, like he wasn’t doing the exact same thing as me, only in different positions.” It’s as close as he can get to explaining the mess of thoughts and emotions he’s feeling, and he’s not even sure he’s doing it very well, but then Brandi starts nodding like he is, making eye contact with Braden again and stroking her hand up and down André’s arm, comforting.

It’s not a surprise in the end, when she reaches across the counter top to grab her phone, unlocking it and pulling something up on there. It’s not a surprise when she says, “We don’t want to push you, okay? This isn’t about what we think, you might not agree with this at all and that’s fine, but I do want you to read this for me okay, honey? See if you might – if it helps.” 

It’s not a surprise when she hands her phone over, and the first thing he sees is the word **Bisexual** in huge letters, but it still makes his breath catch, his heartbeat thudding in his chest. “What?”

“I know it’s hard, in hockey, for any of you to be anything other than straight. And if you are, then that's fine, and we’ll drop it. But if this fits? Or if you’re gay, or asexual or anything else, then we want you to know that’s okay too. That we’ll support you no matter what André,” Brandi says, and when André looks over at him, Braden is nodding along.

“That was what I was trying to say last night. I just didn’t do a good job of it,” Braden says, grimacing.

André doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to _think_. He looks back down at the phone, and the handy little definition underneath the word Bisexual, that says

_adjective._

  1. Sexually attracted to both men and women.



It’s not like André hasn’t heard the word bisexual before, he hasn’t been living under a rock. Maya must have been bisexual, since she had told him about both boys and girls that she’d fucked. But hearing her stories during sex, listening to guys talk about bisexual girls that kiss other girls so they could watch, watching porn threesomes and hearing about sexually fluid 80s popstars – none of that is the same as being sat down with a dictionary definition in front of him and two people that know him, one of which he spends almost every day with, and told that they think this might describe him.

His first thought is to say no. It’s automatic. He’s not gay - hockey players aren’t gay. It’s just a buddies thing. But it isn’t really, is the thing. It hadn’t been last night: however badly it might have gone, André had gone in to that bathroom knowing he was about to have sex with a guy he didn’t know, and up until the end he’d been so turned on he couldn’t think. André isn’t sure it’s been a buddies thing for a long time.

“I think,” André says cautiously, setting the phone down, "That I’m going to go for a run. Is it okay if I borrow some clothes? And headphones?”

“Of course you can,” Braden says, although he looks like he doesn’t want to let André out of his sight. “Mine are in the lounge. And there should be some spare workout stuff in the guest room.” André nods, hopping off his stool and heading in the direction of the lounge. He pauses in the doorway though, turning to face them both again.

“Thank you,” André tells them, “I’ll be back soon.”

 

VIII. Maybe a little homo

André queues up an eighties pump-up playlist on his spotify and doesn’t think about anything for a little while, taking comfort in the familiar feel of his feet on the ground, the burn in his lungs, the meditative silence of his thoughts.

He lasts maybe ten minutes before he gives up and flops down on the grass in the closest park he can find, mindlessly nodding along to the Kenny Loggins playing in his ears  for an endless minute before he really can’t avoid it any longer. André isn’t stupid. Or, okay, maybe he’s a little stupid, but he’s not stubborn enough to not consider all the options in front of him. Those options being:

  1. André is straight.
  2. André is not straight.



Which aren’t very many options really, and the more he turns it over and over in his head, the more he kind of thinks he’s been ignoring some very obvious signs. The elaborate jerkoff fantasies about having sex with men are probably one of those, but everybody ends up thinking about weird stuff when they’re jerking off, that’s just like, a basic fact, right? Maybe not, though. He thinks about one of his longstanding fantasies, about an unspecified guy with a big dick and a lot of facial hair pushing André face down into his pillows and grinding his dick between his ass cheeks, telling him how good he is. His dick twitches.

All right. That’s… pretty gay now he thinks about it. André is pretty sure that the hockey players he’s exchanged half-hearted handjobs and the occasional blowjob with don’t think about that in their spare time. So, he’s bisexual? Not gay, because he spares a thought for the sex he had with Maya, takes a moment to think about a girl wrapped around him, his face pressed between her legs, her tits, and: yeah, not gay. Except he’s not really had sex with guys that felt like anything other than just getting off, or – maybe he had? Thinking back to Nick, the way they’d been with each other, how nice it was to cuddle with him, how sometimes they’d just lay in bed and talked for hours.

He thinks about the one time that Nick had kissed him in a locker room, when they were still high off a win and buzzing with adrenaline, and Nick had grabbed him by the cheeks and pressed a kiss to his mouth, hard and open-mouthed, in front of everyone. André didn’t have time to worry what it meant, or if it was gonna cause problems, because everyone had started jeering and yelling and Nick had let go of him to go smack a kiss on one of their other teammates cheeks, yelling about sharing the love or something.

They’d never talked about it, and even though they haven’t fooled around in years they're still more affectionate than is strictly platonic, and like, okay, maybe André needs to make a call. But apart from overlooked teenage feelings for his best friend that were maybe reciprocated, it’s not like André’s experiences are the best litmus test for gay sex, even aside from the asshole last night. André feels like he’s missing out, like there’s an entire tray of _hors d'oeuvres_ he’s skipped over, only to find that that they're like, gold dusted truffles or something. André doesn’t even know if he would actually _like_ to eat gold dusted truffles, but he thinks he wants to find out.

There’s a whole world of experiences he’s been missing out on, and now that he knows he _can_ , he wants to get on that. He needs a plan though, because however much he might want a Diana Ross’ _I’m Coming Out_ sex montage, he’s still a hockey player, with the expectations that come along with that. He also doesn’t want a repeat performance of last night, so he has to find alternatives. Grindr is a thing, and he knows that there’s an option to pick both women and men on Tinder, but the idea of someone leaking his messages is still a worry, so he might have to skip that for now.

He doesn’t want to try anything with any other hockey players either, since it’s obvious that if he truly wants to get in the gay sex game without being outed or it becoming yet another buddies thing, he’s going to have to widen his net. His gay sex net.

Right. Maybe it’s time to consult the Holtbys.

-

Asking them turns out to be a good plan, since they both have lots of helpful ideas once they’ve spent five minutes hugging André and threatening him with a _congrats you’re bisexual_ cake. Once they're settled in the living room André informs them of his plan to wholeheartedly and extremely thoroughly make up for lost time by having sex with a bunch of men and also women probably, which they express some concern and doubts about, but ultimately agree to help him out with.

Which is how he finds himself in a gay club, trying to pick up other men under Brandi and Braden’s watchful eyes. Metaphorically, because briefly contemplated threesomes aside, it’s purely a supportive older-siblings thing they’re going for right now, while also providing André with some plausible denial if somehow it were to get out that he was in a gay club – Braden’s relatively vocal about his support of LGBT stuff for a hockey player, something that André happily attributes to Brandi’s influence – and neither of them being in a gay club is cause for a scandal. Even so, they’ve specifically picked a place far out enough that they shouldn’t get recognised, thinking that there won’t be too much overlap between the club patrons and hockey fans.

“Okay,” André says when they situate themselves at the bar with some colourful cocktails Braden insists are great, “Okay. You guys are just going to, like, stay here, and I’m going to—” André trails off, wishing he were drunker than he is, but they’d agreed it was best he stuck to the one drink considering what happened last time and also André's penchant for getting sloppy-drunk. It had made sense when he agreed to it, but now, standing in a club and staring out at the hazy mass of bodies around them, the idea of actually picking a guy up is daunting enough that he wants the confidence that alcohol would provide.

Or maybe just obliviousness. Last time he was so drunk that he’d barely even spared a thought for the process of picking up the guy, and every other time had been a buddy thing, which negated any nervousness he might have felt. You don’t have to worry about reciprocation of feelings if you fool yourself into thinking that _you_ don’t have any. André pats himself on the back for that one.

“I’m not going to embarrass you and give you a talk about feeling pressured or being safe, but me and Braden will find a booth or something, and we’ll keep our phones with us so you can find us later, okay?” Brandi says, twirling the stem of her glass around in her hands, already empty. André nods and squares his shoulders, thinking brave thoughts.

“Okay.”

“Nobody knows you here Burky, make the most of it,” Braden tells him, slapping André’s chest, and then they leave him to go find a place to sit, and André is on his own. He stares out at the sea of people for a second, figuring out what he wants to do. Then he downs the last of his drink, which really is good, and heads out into the crowd, armed with a handful of Braden’s condoms and a can-do attitude.

It turns out that being a hockey player is actually sort of useful, since André knows how to read body language, can recognise people that are drunk versus just tipsy, those that are clearly only here to dance with their friends and those that are looking for something, and it doesn’t take him very long to find a mixed group of guys and girls around his own age that happily invite him to join them. He dances with the girls for a little while, getting close but not sticking with any of them, then lets two of them that he thinks might be together pull him into a sort of three-way dancing thing that mostly just involves him having two girls grinding up against him. Which is nice, but not the goal tonight.

He looks over their heads at where the guys are, thinks that he wouldn’t mind kissing any of them if he’s honest with himself. One of them is about André’s height and not far off his build, his brown hair scruffy in a way that’s clearly intentional, but his mouth is what catches André’s eye – plush enough to be distracting when he tips back his beer bottle, mouth pressed to the rim. His tongue flicks out to catch a bead of liquid that escapes the edge of the bottle.

André waits until there’s a lull in the current song to lean in close to one of the girl’s ears and say, “Who’s your friend?” It takes her a moment to register what he’s saying over the noise, and then another second where she clearly thinks he’s talking about the other girl and annoyance flashes across her face, but then she follows his gaze to the rest of her friends, sees that he’s referring to one of the guys – now dancing a little goofily with a blonde girl in platform boots, pretending to be serious about it then dissolving into giggles.

The girl in front of him turns back around and tugs him down a little so that she can speak to him over the music. “That’s Cam, he’s both gay and single, so you’re in luck!”

He doesn’t even get a chance to start over-thinking how he’s going to do this, because she pats his hand and yells something he doesn’t hear, and the next thing he knows she’s grabbing the platform-boots girl and steering her towards another guy, then leaning up to say something in Cam’s ear. André tries not to look completely awkward when he looks up from the girl and takes him in, but he’s sort of just stood standing at this point, so that can’t be helped.

André can’t look like too much of an idiot though, because he smiles at him and allows her to tug him over until they’re standing in front of each other, pressed up close because of how packed the club is getting. “I’m Liz,” the girl yells before she leaves them both to go dance elsewhere, “And you’re welcome!”

He watches her disappear into the crowd, startling when he feels the guys hand on his arm, his breath on his neck. “I’m Cam,” he says, grinning and sliding in closer until their chests bump, their thighs brush. “Sorry about Liz, she likes to meddle. Is this okay?” It’s definitely okay. Cam’s mouth catches on his skin as he speaks, his voice a low rumble in André’s ear and his fingers like brands where they’re gripping his arms. He debates with himself for a second before deciding _fuck it_ , and hooking his arms over Cam’s shoulders, relaxed like girls do when they’re slow dancing. He leans in close, relishing in the inch or so the guy has on him up close, and says, “I’m André.”

 

He thinks they might exchange a few more pleasantries, but he doesn’t remember them later; only the fizzing arousal in his stomach, the itch under his skin where he wants to be touched, the way he can’t look away from Cam’s face, his dark eyes that are focused on André’s own, and his mouth, his mouth, _his mouth._ They dance, though it’s more a lazy grind against each other with the press of other bodies against their backs. Not that André minds. He's shivery with delight, lit up with possibilities, and when Cam finally leans in and kisses him, more than anything he feels relief. This is something he didn’t know he could have – to want and be wanted back by another boy, and it’s such a stupid, simple thing, but now he’s felt it he doesn’t know that he could go back, to those clinical handjobs with a foot of space between their bodies. 

He smiles into the kiss, loses time to the feel of Cam’s tongue against his own, to the scrape of his beard on his skin and the warm flush high in his cheeks, prickling down the back of his neck. He doesn’t feel overwhelmed like he had with the other guy, out of control and malleable with it, he just feels – warm. Overheated, but like he does during a good game, when the sweat stops feeling gross and the pound of his heart drowns out everything else. Cam’s got a hand up his shirt, his fingers splayed across the small of his back and the other cradling his cheek with his thumb pressed to André’s bottom lip as he kisses his way down his throat. He stops thinking for a little while.

They've sort of devolved into something bordering on frottage by the time Liz reappears, looking a little dishevelled herself. André pulls back a little to look at her - her hair is falling out of the plaits she’d had it in, and her lipstick is sort of smudged around the edges. A quick look behind her confirms that, yup – the other girl that had been dancing with them earlier has matching red smudges around her mouth. Cam pulls back from him reluctantly when Liz taps him on the shoulder; André can’t help but smile at how forlorn he looks.

“Gimme a minute Liz,” he says, then turns back, his hand tightening a little where it’s still cupping André’s cheek. “God, sorry. We have class tomorrow so we have to head back early. I’m, um, this was nice?” He leans in to press a quick kiss to André’s mouth, then another, which ends up distracting them for a minute, until Liz taps him again apologetically, and he finally unentangles himself from André. 

“You want my number?” Cam asks. André hadn’t actually meant to do anything that would last beyond the night, but – well, sure. Why not. They exchange numbers, and a few more kisses, and then he's gone. André finds he doesn’t mind all that much. No pressure for sex, just some really, really nice kissing. He is definitely going to jerk off thinking about the way Cam’s hand had felt on his throat, though.

He shuffles his way around the outskirts of the dancefloor until he spots Brandi and Braden set up at a standing table not far from the bar. They’re both giggling about something, and Brandi has clearly had a few more drinks if the way she’s leaning against Braden is any indication, all floppy and loose. She spots him first, and grins a little manically as he approaches.

“André! You look like you had fun.” Her glee is so infectious he can’t help but smile back.

“I did,” he says, making a valiant attempt not to blush. He’s not sure he succeeds if the way Braden laughs and pinches his cheek is any indication.

“So, did you get the confirmation you wanted?” Braden asks, pointedly looking at his neck and whatever marks linger there.

André nods seriously. “Definitely bisexual,” he says, and Brandi lets out a little _woop_ at that, tugging him into a hug. André might woop back.

-

Even though he doesn’t end up messaging Cam, he draws a little heart around the memory in his imaginary scrapbook of gay sex experiences and sets it aside for fond reminiscing at a later date. Or just for jerking off to. He doesn’t mind that they had stopped at kissing. He has limited spare time as a hockey player, and an entire checklist of things he wants to try out. He still can’t get over how good it had felt to have his needs, his body, be more than just an afterthought for the other person.

So he doesn’t go out on like, a sex rampage or anything, he’s not stupid. But over time, here and there, in hotel rooms after games and stranger’s apartments and – okay, one or two bathroom stalls, he gets a little experience. He finds out what he likes.

What he likes is the threesome he has with a bisexual couple that call him _sweetie_ and _baby_ and get him fully naked before they’ve even taken their socks off, petting his hair and pressing gently on his hockey bruises and running their hands over his skin until he’s helpless with it; body curving back into their caresses like an overbred cat, until finally he’s coming with tears streaked down his cheeks and a beatific smile that he's too blissfully exhausted to be self-conscious about.

He gets a bad blowjob in a bar bathroom, and gives a better one.

He exchanges kisses with a very pretty person with a face of sparkly makeup after a game, and happily suffers the jeers and questions from his teammates when he comes back from where he’d lost them with his own face a mess of glitter. Braden gives him a knowing look, and André gives him an innocent smile in return.

He learns what rimming is from a very polite lawyer with scratchy facial hair and an obsession with making André scream: he succeeds pretty thoroughly, and the beard burn between his thighs lasts for days afterwards.

André tells Vrana about his discoveries when they get drunk one night and Vrana shoves a hand down his pants, and André has to explain that he, uh, doesn’t _do_ that any more.

“ _Why_?” Vrana asks, looking genuinely confused. Which is fair, because it’s not like André has ever turned down a handjob before. So André has to explain the bisexuality thing, and how he thought it was just a _bro_ thing, and Vrana looks even more confused and says incredulously, “You thought you were _straight?_ ” Which is a little insulting, but fair. Turns out Vrana is straight but apparently like, over any gay panic he might have had since he thought André was gay from the beginning. It’s cool, and Vrana is cool about them not fooling around any more, so André counts the entire thing as a win.

He also tells Tom, who laughs and hugs him and says, "Only you, Burky."

 

And then there's Nicke, who he tells over lunch one day – though in not so graphic terms, since Nicke doesn’t need to know about André’s misadventures - that he’s not straight and also _maybe_ had a small, quickly squashed crush on him way back when they lived together. Which he’s sorry for being weird about but to be fair to himself, he didn’t realise why he was being weird. Nicke goes silent when André tells him, for long enough that André starts to get worried that maybe this was a bad idea, but then Nicke leans across the table and _hugs_ him, which is terrifying. Nicke doesn’t not like hugs, but he also doesn’t really initiate them off the ice. Even with Alex, it's usually him just throwing himself on Nicke and Nicke resigning himself to his fate.

“Um," Andre says.

“Shh,” Nicke says, “Let me be supportive. I'm proud of you.” Which is way too many feelings for an impromptu lunch where André’s wearing sweatpants and Nicke’s hair looks like it was last brushed in the nineties. He also sounds vaguely threatening, which is honestly the least surprising thing about this interaction.

“Thanks,” André manages.

Nicke sits back then, his face determinedly blank like he hadn’t just been hugging André and making emotional declarations two seconds ago, and André can’t help the swelling of fondness he feels at the sight. When everything else feels chaotic and untethered, Nicke really is a rock: he’s steady and unchanging and honestly has such a solid centre of gravity it’s really difficult to push him over. André knows this, because he’s tried.

 

They are half way back to Kettler after lunch when something occurs to André, and he stops walking abruptly. Nicke stops after a moment too, turning a questioning look on him.

“You and Alex,” André says slowly, re-reevaluating a hundred different interactions that are, on retrospect, pretty clear indicators that whatever Alex and Nicke have isn’t remotely casual. “You’re… together?”

If André didn’t know him so well, he probably wouldn’t catch the barest upturn of Nicke’s mouth, but he does, and it is – there, obvious to anyone who looks. Nicke doesn’t give him an answer, not out loud at least, and André doesn’t say anything back. He doesn’t need to. They walk back to practice in companionable silence, and when they get there and Nicke is swept up and away by Ovi, who is talking animatedly about something André can’t quite hear, he only watches for just long enough to see that smile on Nicke’s face again: happy, indulgent. Absolutely enamoured.

André thinks that he’d like to have that. He also thinks that it’s probably time to make a call.

**Author's Note:**

> Google told me that 'lille gubben' directly translates to 'old man', but is used to mean something like 'little guy' for children in Sweden - and also somehow can be used as an insult for adults? It's the closest I could find to a nickname like little guy/cuddlebug etc that would be embarrassing and a little patronising to still have as an adult.
> 
> The Kenny Loggins song was 'Playing with the boys'; of course. I made a playlist to listen to [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/gunsintheground/playlist/30MsNxMbYlL6hKQ9tng8Nq) if you are so inclined.
> 
> Warnings if you need them: I think I tagged everything but let me know if I missed something. Andre gives a blowjob in a bar bathroom whilst drunk, and the other party becomes physically aggressive/forceful and also uses homophobic slurs. They do let Andre leave, but he's shaken and upset. The experience isn't addressed in detail. 
> 
> Andre also tries to have sex with Nicke, who declines, sex while what would be considered underage for Americans, though none of that is described in detail and it is with people of the same age, and sex with straight men who don't treat him all that nice - these encounters are often one-sided.
> 
> I think that's everything! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it, and reviews are much appreciated.


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